Monster, monster under my bed
Come out and play 'cause I need a friend
You're so damn close that I feel your breath
You're the only one I have left
Monster (Under My Bed) - Call Me Karizma
CH. 10
Winter Is Misery
Winter seemed to be dying a slow, resentful death today.
Rapunzel had awoken to the chattering of her own teeth, and the uncomfortable awareness that she'd had a dreamless sleep.
It was perhaps the most uncomfortable morning she'd ever experienced. Apparently, she hadn't been as successful as she'd thought with cleaning up her sugar ring. In the darkness, it seemed she'd been successful. With the morning sun glaring through the window, it was abundantly clear that was not the case. Rapunzel had done her best to feign ignorance and share in the confusion of her handmaidens.
"Perhaps it's a prank," Lucy suggested, pulling Rapunzel's corset tight across her back. "Maybe it was done to try to attract ants."
The women chatted and argued among themselves about the source of the mysterious sugar while additional staff cleared it out. Rapunzel did her best not to demonstrate her chagrin at the trouble she'd inadvertently caused. Well, she wouldn't need to do it again. At least she could spare them a repeat performance.
Rapunzel had been spared a day of lessons in favor of accompanying her mother. Apparently, the King had seen fit to summon some of his men for an urgent discussion, and many of them had wives who accompanied them, seeking the hospitality of the crown. Rapunzel felt both excited and nervous, though she now understood why her handmaidens had chosen something more formal this day. She wondered if she should be bothered that it seemed her handmaidens were more aware of her schedule than she was. Perhaps it was for the best. She had a feeling trying to be aware of every facet of her life as a monarch would engender nothing but overstimulation.
There were no daughters this day, only wives, which left Rapunzel the youngest woman in the room by at least two decades.
It was much less overwhelming than Rapunzel had anticipated. They were served tea by servants, and gossip by a woman in furs and bright fuschia lipstick that matched her gown. No one made her feel unwelcome, but it seemed no one expected the infamously ill-healthed princess to contribute much besides her presence. It left her the opportunity to listen in fascination at the rapid discussion of the older women.
A woman named Lady Marina Foust wore a grey-violet gown frowned at her pastry. "Is this a bit tart?"
Lady Henzie, a woman in a dark navy gown, with streaks of grey in her hair, brightened. "Speaking of tarts—!"
"Camila," the Queen chided, though amusement played at the corner of her lips.
"Oh, we're all thinking it," the lady continued. "Heed my words; Giselle's daughter will be the death of her husband, believe you me. He's far too old for his daughter to be so prom—."
The Queen cleared her throat, and Rapunzel experienced brief confusion at the meaningful inclination of her head that seemed to be directed towards her daughter.
Lady Henzie opened her mouth, "Prom . . . Promising towards men."
Lady Van Dyne sighed, a dreamy smile on her lips that made her look younger than her age. "Ah, what I wouldn't give to catch a man's attention the way the young do."
Arianna rolled her eyes at the dramatic woman, "We were all young once."
Lady Viola Midland, a severe-faced woman who had drawn her bouncy red curls into a tight ponytail against her head, chuffed into her cup. "You were born old, Arianna. Your brother on the other hand—."
"How fares dear Reggie?" Lady Van Dyne asked, adjusting her furs tighter around her. Rapunzel noticed that her lips left pink marks on the pale ivory tea cups wherever they touched, and wondered if it would stain.
Rapunzel only vaguely remembered the brief visit of her uncle. She struggled to recall the details of his arrival, only vaguely aware that he'd arrived shortly after her anguish had begun to peak. She remembered how tall he was, and his heavy facial hair. His hair had been redder than her mother's as well. She couldn't remember if they'd even spoken.
"Well," her mother replied. "He dotes on his son. Yvette laments at the obvious favoritism. His daughters are beginning to grow jealous. She is burdened with their complaints."
"A little girl wants nothing more than her father's doting attention," Lady Foust hummed. "Reginald always was a man's man."
Yvette, if Rapunzel recalled correctly, was his uncle's second wife. He had four children; three girls by his first wife, and one male heir by his second. Rapunzel hadn't quite yet covered the intricacies of inheritance, but she was slowly beginning to understand that there was an inequality in which gender was chosen as heir. Her nose wrinkled at the idea her own uncle—though a near-stranger to her—would participate in such an idiotic notion. Her distaste seems to go noticed.
Lady Midland smiled, "Does your uncle trouble you, Your Highness?"
"He troubles me," muttered Lady Van Dyne.
The Queen smiled. "You never did like him."
"He's a boar, Arianna." She bemoaned. "I've known dozens of men of his ilk."
"You married a man of his ilk," Lady Henzie reminded her, bemused.
"Who better to judge than I, then?" The younger women sniffed.
Lady Henzie's lips twitched, "It's rude to speak ill of the dead, Adora."
"Then stop speaking of him. I certainly wouldn't mind."
"Come," Ariana encouraged, though she seemed largely amused. "Let us stop besmirching my brother and your husband, rest his soul. You'll put ill thoughts in my daughter's head."
"She's much too smart for a man of his caliber," Lady Van Dyne insisted, reaching across the table to pat Rapunzel's arm. "She has too much of her mother in her to tolerate anything less than the sort of love and respect her parents share. Isn't that right Rapunzel?"
Rapunzel smiled, though she could feel her insides curdling.
"She'll have as many suitors as there are stars in the sky," Lady Foust agreed, raising her teacup. "To your future, sweet princess." She said. "May you want for nothing in them."
The blow was near physical, too potent for such a physical comment. Something on her expression must have betrayed her anguish, for the woman quickly lowered her hand, mouth opening, though no words escaped her.
"Excuse me," she said, rising.
Her mother seemed on the verge of stopping her, one hand hovering over her lap. Rapunzel awaited with thinned lips for the dismissal, her face burning with the heavy weight of a half a dozen women's eyes on her.
Eventually, her mother nodded, wetting her lips. If she'd meant to add a secondary comment, Rapunzel wasn't willing—or able—to wait for it. At her mother's permissive gesture, she faced the high-born ladies, offering only a curtsy before she fled. It couldn't be described as anything less than fleeing, her steps hurried, holding her heavy skirts up and out of the way of her leaden feet. Putting one foot in front of the other while eyes bore holes into her back felt like trying to run under a physical weight, the skin along her back crawling.
She felt overwhelmed, moreso at the quiet figures that fell into place behind her as she left the tea room. The younger of the flock had been dismissed to other tasks for the time being, the room overfull and lined with enough attending staff as it was; only Mary and Lucy remained.
Even their unusually quiet, unobstructive presence seemed to suffocate.
Rapunzel spun around at the hand on her shoulder, a strained dismissal falling short at the edge of her teeth.
Lady Van Dyne stood behind her, throat flexing. To Rapunzel's growing surprise, the much older woman curtsied low, almost overly-formal for a private audience such as this. The elder women made a polite, dismissive motion over her shoulder that had her attending murmuring excuses, heading back towards the tearoom.
Rapunzel's chest swelled with her tense breath, her skin already clammy at the thought of enduring further conversation.
"Your Highness," Lady Van Dyne said softly. "Please forgive me. I spoke carelessly, and meant no offense."
Rapunzel shook her head, quick to forgive and quicker to try and find an excuse for privacy. "No, please, it was—."
Lady Van Dyne reached out softly, her hands clasping over Rapunzel's to steady them. Strange, she hadn't even noticed them trembling. "My dear," she began softly. "A woman's grief is not so shallow a thing as to be forgotten over cold tea."
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"Are you hungry? I know a great place for lunch!"
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Said tea sat curdling in Rapunzel's stomach, a lead rock that burned her from the inside out. "I . . . I'd rather not . . . talk about him."
"No no, of course," the woman assured her, slipping her arm through hers. This close, Rapunzel could smell her perfume, a pungent lavender that had her tasting soap in her mouth, and a hint of vanilla. She patted Rapunzel's hand, flexing her thin arm when Rapunzel's tensed reflexively.
She found herself being led towards the inner courtyard, and was immensely grateful for the gulps of fresh air it afforded. Their pace was slow and constant, walking the outer rim of the courtyard. It was steadying. Rapunzel tried to focus on the rhythm of it, managing to keep the worst of the fraying edges at bay. Her breathing began to steady into something further away from hyperventilation.
"Better?" Lady Van Dyne asked.
Rapunzel nodded.
The older woman sighed, her face turning towards the open air. "I'd like to share a personal story with you, if I may." She glanced at the younger brunette woman, apparently amused by the confusion she saw. "Friends I may be with your mother, princess, but I don't imagine a camaraderie between us. You and I are practically strangers."
It was a shocking realization to Rapunzel; she'd sort of assumed that any friend of her parents was free to treat her with familiarity. Judging by the gentle pat of Lady Van Dyne's hand on hers, it wasn't an assumption she was begrudged.
Turning away from her again, Rapunzel took note of the soft wrinkles in the lady's skin, and how they only seemed to make her look more regal. "I'm sure I made no secret of my disdain for my former husband."
The bluntness startled a small huff out of Rapunzel, her smile weak. "Well, not exactly."
The Lady's lips twitched. "He really was a boorish oaf. Loud, bawdy, and always fighting to be the center of attention. Sterile too, though he certainly blamed me for his troubles in that department."
Rapunzel's brows furrowed, "My maids said being neat and tidy is admired in nobility."
The elder woman turned back to Rapunzel, confusion wrinkling her forehead. After a beat, her steps faltered, her eyes widening in a way that gave Rapunzel the impression she was missing something.
"Er, sterile is . . ."
The faint sound of the wind flowed, the only noise between them as the lady continued to remain silent.
She cleared her throat, resuming their pace, "Well, that's something for you and your mother to discuss when she feels you're ready. Think nothing of it. The point is, my dear, that he was a disagreeable man, whom I was happy to lose. But he was not the man who had my heart."
Rapunzel's eyes widened, "If you didn't love Lord Van Dyne, why did you marry him?"
"Convenience," she replied at once, with a firmness that indicated repetition. "Advantage. Your parents were fortunate enough to marry for love, my dear, and allowed to. My father wasn't so open-minded about my choices."
"Why?"
"Money," she replied apathetically. "Lord Van Dyne was rich, and wanted a pretty wife." She feigned flipping her hair dramatically, causing Rapunzel to giggle again. "None were prettier than I, in my youth, Your Highness." She squeezed Rapunzel's hand, smile mischievous. "Though I suspect you and I would've been in close competition for the title. Alas, it is one of many you can add to your crown."
As she spoke, Rapunzel's body began to unwind. The opportunity to take deep breaths was a welcome one. People always seemed to expect her to speak, to entertain to some degree even when she wasn't the focal point. Lady Van Dyne's permissiveness as she gathered herself was a refreshing change.
"No, my true love's name was Finnie, or so preferred. He liked to say Phineas was too big of a name for a stable boy." Her smile was sad, gaze distant. "He and I grew up together under the same roof. In truth, I hated riding—my horse was ill-tempered and disobedient, and I loathed being muddy. I remembered how the reigns would bite my skin and leave callouses and marks that made me feel mannish. But I'd endure that beast a thousand times over if it meant an excuse to see Finnie. I'd have done anything if it meant we could've been together."
Rapunzel felt her throat constrict, the sentiment too painfully similar to an expression she'd repeated endlessly in her head.
"I won't make you ask what happened," she continued. "The servants quarters were never known for their hygiene. When the plague began to head our way, I begged my father to take him with us." Her mouth twisted, and for a moment, Rapunzel saw the loathing in her eyes, so powerful it was near physical. "He said, 'What need have you for a stablehand? Surely the horse smells better.'"
Rapunzel winced, her chest aching for her. "How cruel."
"He was," she agreed. "I think he saw it as a grand opportunity to be rid of him, an obstacle to a future advantageous marriage. He must've known, had Finnie lived, I would've run off long before I could be wed to someone of his choice." Her throat constricted, eyes suspiciously bright. "When the plague had passed, and we returned, Finnie was . . . gone."
She looked upwards, taking a deep, steadying breath.
"So you see," she began, her chest shuddering. "I understand, Your Highness, the ache a love leaves behind. And I'm sorry to have cut a wound I'm sure already bleeds."
Rapunzel blinked rapidly, her own throat tight, face hot. "Does it . . . ever stop?"
The soft, pained expression on Lady Van Dyne's face spoke volumes.
"It gets easier," she murmured. "With time, and proper grief. I've found it comes in waves, out of mind one moment, and powerful the next."
Rapunzel's hands shook so hard they were forced to stop, her hands sliding out from the older woman's elbow, hugging her own middle. "Do you . . . have you ever . . . blamed yourself?"
The elder woman's tears finally fell, "Near every day."
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"I'm so sorry. Everything is going to be okay though."
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"I can't let you do this."
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"And I can't let you die."
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"I need to go," she said, shrugging off the older woman's hands. "Please excuse me."
"Your Highness . . . !"
For the second time in one day, Rapunzel fled.
She clasped one hand over her mouth, repressing the sobs that threatened to embarrass her. She dipped into an alcove, removing the slippers shoes that hindered her speed before racing back into the inner palace walls.
The few guards she encountered blurred past her, some calling out in concern. She ignored all of them, her focus solely on finding her way back to her rooms to the solitude she so desperately sought.
She bumped into a body, an apology already on the tip of her tongue until regained enough exterior cognizance to notice who it was she'd bumped into.
The skin of Pitch's brow quirked down at her, stoic and irritated. He looked down at her from the barest corner of his eyes, hands folded, body still mostly facing away from her. His disdain and impatience with her presence was near palpable.
It was strange to see him in the daylight. He was, by design, a creature better aesthetically suited to the night. She realized belatedly that this was the same hallway she'd found him stalking within the last time, with the large ornamental windows in it.
"Excuse me," she mumbled, dismissing herself from his presence without a backwards glance. Seeing him only worsened her headache, the anticipatory dread for the night to come mingling with flashes of her memories. The two of them were splitting her skull in half. She rubbed her own hands in self-soothing motions, the habit retained from a lifetime of loneliness, fleeing the hallway entirely.
Pitch watched her go, making no move to follow. It seemed neither of them were in much of a mood for the other's company during the daylight hours. He didn't need his powers to know she was chasing herself into a truly magnificent fit. He was half-tempted to follow her and drain her, but he doubted she'd tolerate his company peacefully; the host only didn't mind the parasite when it remained on its back, out of site, after all. While no doubt he would've eventually been able to convince her to allow his assistance, just the thought of that interaction was too tiresome to act on.
He had drained her of her nightmares the night before, of course. The physical relief it caused had eased the worst of the strain from his ill-tempered outburst from last night, but the lingering pain was fraying his nerves. He hoped the night found at least one of them in better spirits, lest the interaction become more exhausting than it was worth.
His gaze turned back towards the windows, considering them. If he was seeking an unseen supernatural guidance, it seemed wise to start with the origin story. Absurd as it was to try and delegate the source of her lost power to that of a weed, it was the only lead he had for the time being. Through bits and pieces, Pitch had managed to trace the supposed origin of the flower to Corona's fair Goddess.
It was an amusing counterpart to Manny. A Lady in the Sun. Were he not entirely sure that the whiny Tsar had nothing to do with the girl, he would've thought it a crude pseudonym for his influence. That being said, he'd never heard of her, or anything similar. Rumors of a being that called itself Mother Nature was perhaps as close as he knew, but that being's influence seemed focused on plants and creatures; it'd be a large jump from taking up gardening to human vessels, too large a jump to even consider seriously. It'd be like Pitch deciding to take up the art of frost and ice; it simply couldn't be done. It wasn't in his psychology to do so.
He idly wondered what would happen if he tried to possess the girl. He wasn't nearly powerful enough to try, not now, and not anytime soon, but it was technically something within his capabilities. He'd done it before on lesser creatures; Onyx had been one such creature.
He sighed at the memory of the traitorous creature. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so bitter at its attempt to kill him. Maybe 'proud' would've been more appropriate for such a contentious relationship souring. Still, Onyx had been Pitch's first Darkling—a creature consumed deliberately and willfully by Pitch's power and influence. Approaching Pitch's prime, some decades prefacing the Dark Ages, Pitch's wandering had led him to a fateful encounter of a dying horse.
Whatever accident had befallen it, he knew not, but it lay dying and broken on a paved roadside. It's braided mane and horseshoes displayed its domesticity. Clearly, some cowardly human had abandoned their broken mare to its agonized fate, unable or unwilling to do the merciful thing and end its suffering.
Half-curious, Pitch had drawn himself around it, circling, trying to discern the cause of its fractured leg. It's visible, wide brown eye had followed him, torso shuddering with fear. He'd tutted, his palm smoothing over its side. Of all creatures that roamed the pathetic planet, horses had been one of his favorites. Later, he'd receive a great deal of comments about suspecting him to be a cat person, but there was little of interest about a cat. They were equal parts surly, needy, among other unfavorable traits. Horses, on the other hand, were powerful beasts who commanded respect and dominated those with feeble wills.
Also, he couldn't very well ride a cat.
Pitch still remembered the pleading in her eyes. Thinking back on it, it was her noises that had seemed to draw his magic to his fingers; the visible relief in the creatures eyes as it took its last breath as an animal and arose as something new. For many years, Onyx had been his sole companion in the world. Her betrayal, while simply nature playing its role, still burdened him.
A burst of un fear drew his attention away from the stinging past into the present.
With a sigh, he turned from the hallway, towards the fitful unrest that drew him near.
He was surprised to find her alone, and slightly bemused to find her quickly shedding clothes. She seemed to be tearing at them, chest heaving as her hands clawed at the ties of her corset. Her fingers were clumsy and frantic, only managing to loosen it enough to yank it over her head. She threw it against the wardrobe, and was halfway through tearing a button off her overdress when Pitch tired of the frenzy.
Hand outstretched, he pulled.
He saw her still, her breath catching in her throat, her spine drawing itself to her full height. The scent of her clawing fear wafted over him, the sharp edges of his pain dulling. He found his eyes sliding closed, hand turning so that his palm faced upwards. The cork had been pulled, so to speak, and now he could bask in it as it came to him. He relished the chill of it, of the fear sinking into his skin, vivid and bright. He never grew tired of it.
When he deigned to open one eye, he was unsurprised to find her watching him. Her breath had returned to her, as had her senses, given the look she leveled him with.
As the last of it trickled off, he sighed pleasurably. "No need to thank me," he hummed, opening his other eye. "Your gracious offering is thanks enough."
Rapunzel's glare could have skewered him. With the most agonizing of his pains healed, he was in a much better mood to withstand her ire.
To his surprise, she offered no rejoinder. Instead, she turned from, sinking onto the edge of her bed. Her back hunched, head bowed towards her hands.
"Get out." She said, without turning.
The skin of Pitch's brow perked at the dismissal, bleak and unlike her. His tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, trying to place the taste. Unfortunately, he wasn't yet familiar enough with her particular nightmares to figure out what specific terror had incited her this afternoon, but he supposed it didn't matter.
He drifted towards the door, pausing briefly to cast one disparaging glance towards her discarded corset.
"If you have need of me," he said, casting his most infuriating smirk over his shoulder. "Don't hesitate to call."
He was halfway into dissolving when she replied.
"How?"
Pitch paused, his figure reforming itself. He turned half-towards her, considering. He . . . hadn't considered that, actually. It was a jest, only meant to irritate her. Not that he wasn't above admitting that he was deliberately irritating her, but with a second round of consideration . . .
She didn't know what she asked. Very rarely did any spirit with enough power deign to loan a summons to anyone, let alone a human. It was usually unnecessary; any spirit or deity with that much interest in a mortal was usually already hanging about, watching. Of course, circumstances didn't always allow for constant supervision, hence the need for a summons. Still, there were rare, even moreso as of late.
Pitch's eyes narrowed. The lingering silence finally drew her gaze, something like suspicion in her eyes.
". . . I'll be about." He eventually replied.
She rolled her eyes, unusually surly.
Pitch might have said more, but the hurried footsteps of the hens scampering down the hallway outside soured any further interest he might've had. Wordlessly, he departed just as her bedroom doors began to creep open.
A summons.
Honestly.
The nerve of some mortals.
He was halfway away from the wing entirely, considering finding his way one of their monasteries when he paused.
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". . . I'll be about."
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Damn.
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With an audible groan, he sent his feelers. Weak as he was, from this distance, he could only feel the faintest hint of her existence. Any hope of sensing her emotional state was a figment of a dream. Pitch lamented; not too long ago, he would've been able to sense the fear of a child from across the entire length of the city. As he was now, that was clearly no longer within his realm of capabilities.
I'll be about, he'd said flippantly.
It seemed he would.
With another groan that spoke of his irritation and reluctance, he sank back into the shadows, fixated on the distant figure of the princess. With every room he passed, his mood grew more unpleasant. Every foot closer to her was another foot of his freedom he'd need to sacrifice in order to keep his word. He'd really put his own foot in his mouth. It certainly wouldn't be the first time his mouth had gotten him into trouble, but never had it occurred in such a way as to inconvenience him outside of bodily harm. Somehow, this seemed worse.
Pitch continued to dart about the grounds, testing and pulling at the boundaries of his diminished powers. He discovered that a significant enough portion of being able to sense the girl depended on how much effort he was willing to exert. Idle thought required him to be much closer than if he was actively seeking her out, which was . . . tolerable. It'd mean he'd need to regularly scan for her, but he could still be no more than a building over before he lost her completely.
How annoying.
It was annoying enough that he was tempted to just give her a summons, pride be damned. Unfortunately, he wasn't entirely confident that it'd be a foolproof means of contacting him in his current state. Certainly it would have a longer range than his own (currently) meager sensing abilities, but he was loath to test it. It would require her participation, and the eventual need to admit that he was not as strong as he pretended to be. The idea of admitting as such at all was laughable—especially when their bargain was still so fresh.
He sighed, pinching the subtle bridge of his nose. There was nothing for it, at least for now. It would be a waiting game; either she'd recover, and have fewer need of him, and thus be less likely to notice his absence, or he would grow strong enough to be able to sense her at greater distances. Patience would need to be exhibited.
Pitch could be patient.
It could be worse, he decided, eyes scanning the kingdom's skyline. He'd settled on a roof close to the princess's wing, trying to at least visually locate the monastery he'd originally meant to visit. They seemed to share a mutual detestment for one another. If she was constantly eager to rid herself of his presence, that meant he wouldn't be needlessly encumbered by her demands. His lips twitched. Perhaps if she'd threatened to be a nuisance, she'd have had better leverage to bargain with.
Rapunzel wanted nothing more than to collapse into a dreamless sleep; to pretend for a moment that her dreamlessness was a result of recovery rather than a tentative, poorly considered deal with the devil. Unfortunately, her own tumultuous emotional state, along with the looming presence of their bargain, kept her awake far longer than she preferred.
She must've been a sight; the strange cold emptiness that had followed his visit had been too unnatural to cope with alone. She'd laid in bed, her body anticipating a pain that didn't come, but unwilling to forego the habit of it. Eventually, someone had thought to bring Pascal for a visit, and the two of them had read. Rapunzel had foregone catching him up on the latest development with Pitch, wanting just one interaction that was devoid of commiserated grief or tension. It was clear she wasn't fooling Pascal, but whatever he'd read in her had allowed her to escape his probing for the time being and simply have a day in bed, giggling and reading together.
She sensed him the moment he appeared, her sixth sense for him growing sharper with every interaction. There was simply no hiding his presence; her skin gained goosebumps, the hairs on her neck rising, an instinctual tension coiling her frame.
With a slow sigh and a concerted effort, she released that tension.
"I've been thinking about our deal," she began, still not rising.
The tension in the room increased.
"Trying to back out already, princess?"
"No," she said, and the tension eased to something more anticipatory than angry. "I want the stories told to be in response to a question I ask."
His silhouette cut a line of darkness in the window, casting a long shadow in his wake. ". . . Hmm. I assume I'm offered the same concession?" He had to turn his head entirely to see her wordless confirmation. His lips twitched. "Very well. Ask your question."
She rose, huddling her blankets around herself. "Where did you come from?"
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"Nothing."
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"I came from nothing."
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Rapunzel's brows furrowed, "That's . . . not true."
"Is that your guess?"
"It's not really an answer," she said slowly.
Pitch shrugged one shoulder, looking back out at the last few lit lanterns in the sea of buildings. "I can offer little elaboration. I awoke exactly as I am now, far from here. There is no precursor to it."
Rapunzel's skin itched with anxiety, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. It was a trick, it had to be. Things just . . . didn't work like that.
Or did they? What did she know of anything? She barely understood how to lace her boots—not that anyone had let her try yet—let alone anything about enormous mythical monsters.
Her nose wrinkled as she considered the reply, "Then the answer isn't nowhere, the answer is you don't know."
He scoffed, as though the mere suggestion that he not be all-knowing was too preposterous for a reply.
Her eyes narrowed, "You don't know."
"Is that your guess?"
"Yes."
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A very small, slow smile crept across the corners of his mouth, revealing individual teeth.
"Think carefully of the question you'll ask tomorrow, princess." He hummed, slinking off into the shadows. He cast her one last smirk over his shoulder, "They won't all be so easy."
In an overdramatic display she feared she'd have to get used to, Pitch once again melted into the shadows.
As she pulled the blankets over her shoulders, she wondered what the point of spiriting off was when he'd just have to come back once she fell asleep.
A/N
This story has me constantly struggling to find answers to how to progress from point A to point B until I stop worrying about it and finally just write it out. Small (sort of) spoiler I'm offering; Pitch and Rapunzel are obviously going to be pretty regularly around one another. It's (eventually) a romance story, after all. But there was a need to figure out how two people who can't stand each other end up constantly in each other's orbit. Certainly neither of them is eager to bridge the gap between enemies to friendship at the moment, and Pitch isn't so obnoxiously antagonistic as to seek her out for the sole purpose of irritating her with enough regularity that they become friends. I've been twisting myself in knots trying to figure out what could compel them to be around one another until I finally sat down and started writing their interaction during Rapunzel's panic attack. Once again, Pitch supplied the solution I needed of his own volition.
[Q & A - Contains Spoilers]
As I do want to continue to encourage you all to review, I'd love to answer any questions you may have about this story!
Rapunzel will be growing her hair back, but that's much a mid/late story arc. There's a lot that needs to happen before we get around to that.
The story will be continuing! As a US citizen however, I'm very much feeling the strain of our country at the moment. On top of a job, chapters are being put out as soon as they can be. Thank you all for your patience and feedback!
As always, stay safe, stay inside, and stay lovely!
Published 1.16.21